Oddment
by Apocalypticat
Summary: When something mysterious happens to Dumbledore, the trio want to find out more. What DID happen to Albus that day? Features an extremely, deliberately OOC Dumbledore. ADOC
1. He's Waking Up!

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This is my first HP fanfic on here and if I get anything completely wrong, please tell me! This is just going to be a short little fic just for fun (short? Depends how define short). Please Review!

On with the show!

"He's waking up!" came Poppy's voice.

The faculty, who'd been milling outside the hospital wing in varying degrees of anxiety, jerked at the sound and then crowded into the hospital wing, to pass by the screen which separated a part of the room from where a couple of sick (and milking it) second years lay and a third year languished on his bed after stupidly drinking his own potion . After all the headmaster was a special case.

Minerva moved slightly to the right in order to see past Hagrid. Concern was etched on her face and when Sybil got in the way, she sighed in irritation and took another step to the right. She was very worried about Albus.

Everyone was. Even Severus, despite his best attempts to conceal any type of emotion, had a small glint of disquiet in his dark eyes. Although all of the teachers were confused, Severus was confused most of all. Minerva found herself feeling sorry for him.

The sable-haired man had had a short conversation with Albus a little before the incident. According to Severus, everything had seemed perfectly normal.

"He tortured me with hopeless requests, sherbet lemons and a vaguely dotty demeanour," were his exact words, Minerva remembered. "Afterwards, the annoying man twinkled at me until I told him to stop it and then he pretended not to know what I was talking about!"

Minerva would not have trusted the Potions Master's word on its own but she'd eaten lunch with Albus only a bit before Severus's conversation and he'd seemed absolutely normal. They'd had an interesting talk about seventh year topics for transfiguration, Albus had spilt Pumpkin juice all over Minerva's lap and then had apologised profusely (offering a sherbet lemon in desperation) for ten minutes. Nothing untoward seemed about to happen (ignoring the war, of course).

The Deputy Headmistress sighed as she remembered the fateful Quidditch match.

The fervour a Quidditch match provoked could be said to be heartening by some and ridiculous by others. In spite of one of the most violent storms Minerva had ever seen, and the torrential rain that accompanied it, the whole school had still turned out to watch the match, which was between Gryffindor and Slytherin, meaning that the tension was even higher than usual. It had taken place against a melodramatic backdrop of angry purple clouds and lightning and wind stole away any cheering. Minerva had watched the Potter boy cause the Malfoy kid to nose-dive into the ground using a Wronski Feint and the red-headed Keeper being victim to numerous Bludger attacks. She'd been surprised that Albus hadn't turned up for the game but there'd been other occasions before when his work had forced him to miss a match and she hadn't panicked.

The Slytherins had been doing well and had been winning by fifty points - until the Potter boy saw the Snitch. The whole school had leant forward on the edge of the seats, watching the Boy-Who-Lived's hand getting closer and closer to the small golden gleam that was the elusive ball…

And it had been during that unearthly pause in thought, where everything seemed to fade except for the Seeker and the Snitch, that Albus had appeared.

There hadn't been a flash. Or a bang. Or even a popping sound. The Headmaster had simply appeared, without warning, on the pitch.

Half the school had cheered or hissed when the Potter boy caught the Snitch. The other half had stared in alarm at Albus.

Minerva remembered instantly making a mental list of what worried her. The fact that he had just stood, frozen, on the pitch, was worrying enough. The fact that he'd been clasping a small baby to him was disquieting as well. His clothes were so perturbing that had he merely walked into the Great Hall wearing them, Minerva would've been worried as to his mental state. The Headmaster had always been slightly mad but nothing could've prepared ANYONE for the sight of Albus wearing long leather trench coat which came down his ankles, black trousers, a black t-shirt with a skull on and large silver cross on a chain. _And _dark glasses. The very thought was bizarre.

But it'd been mainly the look on his face that had alarmed her. She'd never, ever seen him look so distraught. His eyes had been round with horror and seemed to be seeing something which no one else could see. His mouth had been slightly open as if in shock or dismay. In fact, he'd looked close to tears.

And then, in front of the disbelieving students and the stunned faculty, he'd keeled over sideways, still in exactly the same position. When the teachers had poured onto the pitch, they'd found that he'd fainted. The small, selfish, completely-apathetic-to-everyone-else part of Minerva was slightly annoyed by this: Albus had a lot of explaining to do.

And she was determined that he was going to do that. Here. Now.

Albus lay on the bed, the black of his garb contrasting violently with bright sheets. All other attempts had failed and so Severus had had to brew a potion to wake him up. He'd been conscious for a week and the faculty's concern and curiosity were both reaching their peaks.

"Albus?" ventured Poppy.

His eyes snapped open and the pupils flicked about quickly. He seemed disorientated.

"What happened?" blurted Minerva, unable to restrain herself, earning a frown from Poppy. The rest of the teachers mentally pricked their ears.

He focussed on her. "Dunno."

Minerva's relief at a response was quickly crushed by the disturbing feeling of being in an alternate reality. The Albus she knew would never have said "dunno." In fact, the Albus she knew would've given an unnecessarily eloquent and long answer, probably along the lines of: "I do not appear to be suffering any major or minor contusions and my bones seem to be present and in working order. However, I am perplexed, lying comatose in the Hospital Wing, dressed in unusual attire and I do not seem to have any sherbet lemons with me."

"Could you elaborate?" asked Severus acidly, only his eyes revealing his concern.

Albus suddenly moaned and brought his hands to his face, as if remembering something unpleasant suddenly. He muttered something nobody could hear and then lurched upwards into a sitting position, revealing his face, which was lined with anxiety.

"Where's-?" he began but Poppy had clearly anticipated the question.

"The baby's fine, Albus," she reassured him. "She's sleeping at the moment. I'm looking after her at the moment. Now, can you tell us what happened?"

The Headmaster appeared to consider this for a moment. "No," he said finally.

Everyone blinked in surprise. Albus usually responded to reasonable requests and usually, when asked to explain something, would launch into a massive talk that both help and confused people. The word "no" was not a word in Albus Dumbledore's vocabulary.

"No?" repeated Minerva, incredulously. "_No?"_

"No," confirmed Albus. He turned a lined, tired, haunted face up to her. "You appear to be having trouble with that concept." He said it without any trace of humour.

"Why not?" demanded Severus, seeming wrong-footed by the uncharacteristic refusal.

"I don't feel like telling you a damn thing," said Albus, without emotion. "Go away."

Minerva's temper started rising. "Albus Dumbledore! You appeared in the middle of a Quidditch match with a baby and fainted! We're worried about you! Tell us what happened to you!"

Albus seemed to start to get angry too. His crystal blue eyes blazed with a furious fire. The thought that she shared You-Know-Who's fear of that fire flew through the Deputy Headmistress's head as the bony frame under the offensively different clothes trembled - but whether from rage or from something else, was not clear.

He told the teachers to go and do something and said a word which Minerva never expected to hear from Albus.

The Headmaster glared at their faces, savagely pleased by the apparent shock, and picked up his dark glasses from the bedside table and put them on, so that they concealed his eyes. "Surprised at me swearing, are we?" He folded his arms like a defiant teenager.

He then proceeded to rattle off a long list of obscenities, referring to excretion, human anatomy, reproductive activities and so on. He then took out a cigarette and started smoking it. The rest of the faculty were too stunned by this unbelievable behaviour coming from the most unlikely person that they did nothing but stare.

"We'll come back later," said Minerva after he'd finished, suddenly unable to cope with this shocking transformation from Albus the Wise But Slightly Dotty into Albus the Completely Raving Mystery Man.

The teachers left the Hospital Wing simultaneously, wishing to be as far away as possible from the evidence that the world had gone mad. Even Poppy left the room, apparently too shocked to speak.

So it was that only a sable-haired boy sporting a melodramatically-shaped scar, peering past the screen, hidden beneath a concealing cloak, saw silver tears suddenly start to drip their way down Albus's face.

The boy retreated, a troubled expression dominating his thin visage under the Invisibility Cloak. He left and the Hospital Wing was silent, except for the sound of its only wakeful charge trying to suppress sobs.

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A/N: Yes, Dumbledore is meant to be OOC.


	2. SPACH

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I hope this isn't going rubbish…

"He what?" repeated Ron, who was definitely having trouble grasping what Harry was saying.

"He swore," said Harry again, adjusting his glasses slightly. "And then…"

"What?" asked Hermione, the big book on her lap for once forgotten.

The trio were in the Gryffindor common room and Harry was passing on what he'd seen to two of the few people he trusted. Rumours about Dumbledore had been spreading through the school like wildfire and everyone was bursting with curiosity about the Headmaster's condition. Most of the students found the most amazing thing to be Dumbledore's clothes and only a few pupils had seen the look on his face at the pitch. Hermione had been one of those few and she was desperately worried. Being a clever witch, she knew that the safety of Hogwarts depended on the Headmaster and if something was wrong with him…

Harry felt rather odd about the whole episode. His anger at Dumbledore still hadn't fully abated but now he was too confused and concerned about the old man to let the emotion dominate him. The feeling of unreality, however, was increasing. Since Sirius had died, nothing had felt very real. He'd spent the holidays in a stunned daze, sitting alone in his room, battling with a growing guilt complex. Now the world seemed to spinning away from him and leaving him in a misty hazy limbo, in which nothing was as it seemed and the unexpected was expected. Dumbledore's strange appearance was the occurrence which he'd thought had taken away the last vestiges of his ability to be surprised. Dumbledore's behaviour when woken, however, had convinced him otherwise.

"Then," Harry continued awkwardly, "he started…um…crying…"

"Crying?" repeated Ron incredulously. "_Crying?"_

Harry nodded, looking deeply disturbed. He'd only seen the Headmaster cry once before (that had been shocking enough) and even then, it had only been a single tear. Despite his anger at Dumbledore over last year, he still looked up to the old wizard and seeing him like that troubled him.

"How horrible!" exclaimed Hermione unnecessarily, putting her hands up to her mouth. Then her anxiety seemed to increase. "You don't think it's to do with…with…" Her voice went a notch lower. "…Voldemort, do you?"

Harry shrugged but the thought of the prophecy still caused him to shiver. "I don't know. It could be."

"It must be," said Ron immediately, nodding seriously. "I mean, what else could it be? We would've noticed if there was another equally evil and powerful dark wizard wanting to take over the world hanging around, wouldn't we?"

"Yes," said Hermione.

Both Harry and Ron looked at her disbelievingly.

"But-" she began.

"Phew," breathed Ron. "You had me worried there."

"But," she continued, ignoring them, "_how _could V-voldemort have caused that.? Unless he's taken to randomly kidnapping people, dressing them in weird clothes and then getting them addicted to nicotine - which I don't think he has, _Ronald Weasley," _she added sternly as Ron started laughing at the idea. "Unless he has, then I don't see how he can be responsible."

"Either way, we should find out…" said Harry, a little uncertainly.

Ron sobered instantly. "Harry, don't worry. We can use your cloak and there'll be no chance of us getting caught! And anyway, Dumbledore may have forbidden you to do things like that but this is for his sake! Surely he couldn't tell you off for being worried about him!"

Hermione sniffed in a scornful way. "I still don't really approve of the idea…"

Ron opened his mouth to argue with her.

"-But I accept that it's necessary," she continued. "The question is: how? It's not as if we can sneak up to the Hospital Wing and he's going to tell us everything. We're not even sure what the problem is. In fact, is there a problem?"

"Hermy!" Harry argued hotly. "Of course there's a problem! The Headmaster _can't _just disappear and then turn up acting as if he's gone crazy!"

Hermione stared at him, unconvinced.

"He's got to be," continued her friend urgently. "Dumbledore and leather don't go."

Ron turned to look at him as if he was mentally subnormal. Hermione didn't need to alter her expression.

"What? Well, anyway, don't you see that if people can kidnap Dumbledore… well, then, it's _bad."_

Hermione sighed. "Assuming he was kidnapped. And anyway, he's unhappy. Perhaps there's something we can do if we find out what happened."

"She'll be starting SPACH now," whispered Ron to Harry.

"'SPACH?'" repeated Hermione, her sharp ears picking up on Ron as always.

"Society for the Protection of All Crazy Headmasters."

Hermione rolled her eyes and then a problem occurred to her. "Um, guys? We've decided to find out as much as we can and all…"

The boys nodded; yes, they had decided that.

"But where do we start?"

#

The trio found themselves stumped by that last question. How _were _they going to find out anything? It's not as if Dumbledore was going to write down what happened on pieces of paper and then conveniently leave them strewn all over the school. It wasn't as if going and spying on Snape was going to get them anywhere. Secret passages would not lead them to a pensieve containing a memory of the event. Hermione was unlikely to find a chapter in a book from the Restricted section titled 'Dumbledore's Disappearing Act and the Reasons Behind It, With Comments by Matilda Bagshot.'

This meant that the trio had to unhappily continue with their normal lives for the next week. Hermione eavesdropped on all the teachers by simply finding reasons to stay behind after lessons ("Professor Flitwick, you mentioned something about a way to perform Switching Charms without an incantation, I was wondering whether I could stay behind and try?") but since they all seemed just as confused, nothing was revealed. The news that Dumbledore was out of the Hospital Wing was the only bright spot in a sea of mystery.

"I suppose we could go there and see if he dropped anything," suggested Harry doubtfully, not expecting to find anything.

The others didn't hold out much hope either, but, having no other ideas, it meant that midnight found the friends under Harry's Invisibility Cloak, creeping around the Hospital Wing, trying desperately not to wake Madam Pomfrey, who'd dozed off beside one of her patient's beds. They peered under the bed Dumbledore had been in (now back with the others) in the darkness and hunted all around the area but to no avail: they found nothing.

Hermione accidentally let out a loud sigh of frustration and the trio had to freeze and stop themselves from even breathing too loudly as Madam Pomfrey stirred, yawned but then thankfully went back to sleep. Hermione found herself for once extremely thankful that some people played pranks: the only reason Madam Pomfrey was so drained as to be asleep at her post (watching over a third-year who'd had something rather nasty put in his pumpkin juice) was that there'd been a sort of prank-war between two gangs of second-years, which had got rather out of hand, leaving the minder of the Hospital Wing exhausted. 

Ron and Harry, obviously giving up, made to turn away but Hermione gestured at the bed from under the cloak. Her meaning was obvious: what if Dumbledore had left something _in _the bed?

Harry didn't think much of this idea, as Madam Pomfrey cleaning the bed thoroughly after each occupant and he didn't her sharp gaze would have missed anything. Despite heavy doubts, the trio went over to the bed and began sifting through the blankets and pillows as quietly as possible. And, to everyone's surprise, something fell out of a fold in the thick outer blanket - which Madam Pomfey was unlikely to have removed unless something as dreadful as vomit had landed on it.

To everyone's confusion, when Ron picked it up, it was found to be a photo - but of nobody they knew. The moving picture depicted an old woman who reminded Harry strangely of Dumbledore: she wore glasses, had long, startlingly white hair and had a similar twinkle in her brown eyes. She was wearing a leather jacket, which looked as odd on her as it did on Dumbledore and there were several faded scars on her face. The image smiled and winked at the baffled teenagers.

Ron stuffed it in a pocket so they could look at it more closely in the common room when they got back and they turned to go-

And Ron, particularly gangly and clumsy after a growing spurt, tripped over one of Madam Pomfrey's chair legs.

The cloak, wrapped around Ron, pulled Hermione over and Harry stumbled, trying to stop himself from treading on his friends. He ripped the cloak off and tried to tug it from his friends-

"Mr Potter! Mr Weasley! Miss Granger!" exclaimed a hushed but furious voice behind them.

Madam Pomfrey stood, glaring daggers at them.

"I've had enough of this! You're being constantly found out of bed and in here when you're not meant to be, especially after curfew! You're going straight to the Headmaster!"

A/N: I know I didn't really go into enough detail with the trio's investigations but I did say this was going to be short!


	3. Into the Pensieve

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Silver Ice - Thank you! Ach, Ron is so clumsy. Hope you like the rest of this!

Sorry to leave on such a cliff-hanger! On with the show…

No element of the Harry Potter universe is mine. I am merely renting it and vandalising it slightly.

Harry couldn't help feeling very curious, as they were marched along the school corridors by a livid Madam Pomfrey. What would the Headmaster be like? Would he be back to normal or would he be just as Harry had last seen him: behaving in a way which defied logic or reason? Strange scenarios spun around in Harry's head and he barely paid attention to Ron muttering under his breath beside him or Hermione's agitated footsteps from behind him.

He was so buried inside his own head that he nearly walked into the back of Madam Pomfrey as they stopped outside Dumbledore's office. Madam Pomfrey's resultant glare was almost as bad as Snape's - and that was saying something. He heard Ron make some comment about the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office looking like the greasy Potions Master and had time to absent-mindedly smile before the angry witch next to him spoke the password.

"Chocolate frog!" Madam Pomfrey said it as though it was an obscenity so vile that flowers would wither before it.

The gargoyle jumped aside and the trio, trying to look suitably cowed, were led up the spiralling stairs to the Headmaster's office. Being an unholy hour, the Headmaster was nowhere to be seen and, without him, the office was strangely devoid of personality. Fawkes was on his perch, however, and he eyed Harry in the way a primary school teacher would eye a pencil sharpener full of snot.

_I've been here so many times I might as well become a resident, _thought Harry wryly. He glimpsed a pile of broken silver instruments on Dumbledore's desk, as if in the process of being repaired. He winced and made up his mind to apologise to the Headmaster as soon as possible: his guilt complex was already a step away from becoming an monstrous knot of legend - and he had no sword to cut through it.

"The Headmaster is not here at the moment," announced Madam Pomfrey. The trio wondered who she was speaking to, as the fact was too obvious to be worth mentioning. Any speculations were cut short when the mistress of the Hospital Wing continued to snarl at them. "I am going to fetch him and you are NOT, repeat NOT, to touch ANYTHING whilst you're waiting and you're NOT permitted to go ANYWHERE!"

She stormed out and the trio waited for the dust to settle.

"I think she overemphasised a bit," commented Hermione, who was the type of person to analyse dialogue in day-to-day situations as if it were a passage of text in a book.

"Um, yeah," said Ron, scratching the back of his head in a way that signalled his confusion (something the muggle-born witch beside him would say was perpetual). "Why should we go anywhere, anyway?"

"Hey, how about we have a look around?" suggested Harry tentatively. From long experience, he knew that if he said something tentatively, Hermione and Ron were less likely to argue with one another. It did, however, mean that he found it easier to argue with himself.

"Where?" Ron waved his arms around dramatically. His sable-haired friend saw his point: Dumbledore's office was like a display representing his mind - random clutter was everywhere.

Hermione was suddenly struck with inspiration. That is to say that a book with _Inspiration _inscribed on its cover in a curling, golden script suddenly toppled from a bookcase behind her and hit her on the head. Fate can have a sense of humour.

"The Pensieve!" she cried out abruptly.

Ron was blank for a second and then comprehension dawned. "That's a great idea! He'll probably have put the whole thing in there!"

"Um, I don't know," mumbled Harry as the other two members of the trio turned excitedly towards him, desperate to know where the treasure chest of Dumbledore's thoughts was.

Unpleasant memories of another occasion where he'd looked into a Pensieve without the owner's permission were surfacing in Harry's mind. He shivered as past almost enveloped him: sharp, black, cold eyes glittering with fury, boring into his soul as some of his faith in his father collapsed… What did Dumbledore's Pensieve conceal? The man was like the Chamber of Secrets personified: who knew what other things he knew that he'd never told Harry? And after the last secret the Headmaster had divulged to him, Harry was sure that he wanted to remain ignorant.

"Where is it, mate?" Ron said again. He didn't know why his friend was hesitating.

"Harry," said Hermione gently, persuasively. "We've got to find out what's going on. The Headmaster can't just vanish and then reappear with a baby-"

The memory of that fateful Quidditch match forced its way back into Harry's consciousness and he almost seemed to be gripping the Snitch again, looking through sheets of rain as the whole school sat stunned. Once again, he seemed to feel all the amazement and shock that moment had elicited.

Dumbledore in leather.

The thought stung him into action. He pointed at the cabinet where the Pensieve had been held - and was hopefully still held. Trying not to think of what would happen if Dumbledore burst in whilst the trio were probing his private memories, Harry helped the others get the Pensieve out of the cabinet and rest it on the desk. Then they stood, staring at the silvery ghostly surface of the Headmaster's memories, aware of the seriousness of what they were about to do.

"D'you think this really has anything to do with well… anything?" Ron said, taking the photo out of his pocket and making gestures in the air with it.

Harry stared at him as though he'd gone mad before remembering the photo. He shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe we'll find out in a sec though."

The trio turned, linked hands, took deep breaths and then simultaneously stared at the Pensieve. Under such scrutiny, the ghostly substance in the bowl swirled and began to form a picture.

"Ready?" asked Hermione. Harry doubted that she'd halt the 'mission' if he told her no.

"Yep," said Ron, now sounding a bit nervous.

They thrust their hands into the bowl and suddenly, they were being pulled into the thoughts of one of the greatest (and currently one of the most mysterious) men who'd ever lived - even if he did have such a ridiculously long full name.

Harry had the odd sensation that something had changed but he didn't know what. It was only when he realised that the Pensieve was now over the other side of the room, poking out of the cabinet slightly, that understanding came to him. This was Dumbledore's office - but in the past.

The stark differences between the office he'd just been in and the office he was in now were suddenly obvious. Firstly, the past office was somewhat tidier, as if the past Dumbledore had actually bothered to keep everything organised. Secondly - and this was the most striking difference - Dumbledore was present.

He was seated at his desk, scribbling away in his loopy handwriting on a piece of parchment, humming a small tune and chewing something the Boy-Who-Lived could only assume was Sherbert Lemon. The sense of rightness was almost physical; it hit Harry so abruptly. This was right. This was normal. There Dumbledore was in his normal robes, with his normal twinkle, radiating peace and security for miles around. Nothing looked about to go wrong.

"Oh!" exclaimed Ron, making Harry and Hermione jump. "We're so sorry sir, we didn't mean to-"

"Ron, this is the past!" snapped Hermione, frustrated by Ron's lack of intelligence. "He can't see or hear us!"

"Oh," Ron said again, looking slightly embarrassed. Then he said, "are you sure we haven't gone too far back? It doesn't look as though he's about to disappear."

Hermione drew herself up in irritation. "Oh? And how is someone who is about to disappear supposed to look?"

"Um…"

"Exactly."

The trio gazed at Dumbledore expectantly but he didn't seem about to do anything unusual. Harry was about to sigh with resignation - nothing was going to happen - when Hermione suddenly let out a shriek that could of shattered windows.

Ron leapt about six feet in the air and let out a whimper similar to the sound he'd produce when faced with an Acromantula. Harry felt his hair stand on end. The only person who didn't react was the Headmaster, who'd paused to load his quill with more ink.

"What the hell-?!" gasped Ron but Hermione answered him with a pointed finger.

Harry looked at Dumbledore's desk as directed but at first didn't see anything odd. It took a minute for his eyes to pick up on the glowing ball rolling slowly across the wood towards Dumbledore, who hadn't noticed it at all.

'Glowing ball' was a very vague description of what the trio saw. It was indeed spherical - but it's shape was distorted and seemed blurry compared to the rest of the memory they were in. It was a ball of impossibility, the very nature of reality crunched up into a small space. The eye couldn't focus properly and it seemed to be almost a miniature black hole, sucking in the world around it, leaving little holes in the fabric of reality. The trio stared at it in shock - and then the Headmaster noticed it.

If the situation hadn't been so serious, perhaps they would've laughed at the look on Dumbledore's face: it was a combination of disbelief, shock, surprise and confusion. He shot backwards from the desk and dropped the quill as the Impossibility rolled forward to rest in front of him. Then he leant forward with an expression of intense curiosity in his blue eyes and carefully prodded it with a finger.

Harry had time to wonder how anyone could possibly be that stupid before the world seemed to explode with light.


	4. Destroyed

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I have nothing to say.

A millisecond after touching it, Albus Percival Wulferic Brian Dumbledore was certain he shouldn't have touched it. It seemed that a century of being a wizard hadn't taught him anything about what not to do when confronted with an Impossibility.

Expecting to be separated into the billions of molecules that made up Albus Dumbledore and then suffer these said particles to be spread all over the universe in testament to overwhelming foolishness, the Headmaster was quite surprised to realise that he was in one piece and standing on something solid. As the searing light began to fade, he blinked the brightly coloured spots around and then hesitantly opened his eyes properly.

A bathroom. It was decorated with dark blue tiles and sky-coloured paint. It was clean, small, smelt slightly of hyacinth and was dominated by a shower, a toilet and a sink, above which a mirror tastefully hung.

In any other situation, the old wizard would've commended the owner for its taste but right then, he felt completely confused. He hadn't known what to expect before he looked but a bathroom certainly wasn't on the list. And surely, having done something so silly as to prod something he knew nothing about, he should at least be suffering a _badly_ decorated bathroom - perhaps painted a garish orange, with prints of Grindelwald, Voldemort and the Dark Mark?

Having reached the decision that this situation could be categorised as utterly odd, Albus turned around and took a decisive step forward towards the door.

Normally, a decisive step from the Headmaster would mean that people all over the place felt safe, that a certain black-haired, green-eyed, scarred teenage boy would look relieved, that a greasy Potions Master would suffer a brief unpleasant flash of impending doom and that the Head of Gryffindor House would either argue or look supportive. The scene might feature impolite, spluttering Ministers of Magic, happy red-heads, an excitable House-Elf, a paranoid ex-Auror and a woman with an inconstant hair-colour. It might just possibly involve some sort of monster which the groundskeeper insisted was friendly but actually wanted to eat everything and everyone near it. Given his past experiences, Albus was convinced that nothing could surprise him anymore.

So when the door opened to reveal a naked old woman, he was in no way prepared.

Albus nearly stumbled and fell from shock. Blood rushed to his cheeks and he quickly averted his eyes whilst the woman let out a cry of surprise. As with all other embarrassing situations with the opposite sex, Albus started babbling.

"T-terribly s-sorry - didn't realise - v-very v-very s-sorry to intrude - d-didn't expect - I-I-I-"

He sensed movement and risked a glance upwards, to see the woman now in a dressing gown which seemed to have materialised from nowhere. The Headmaster had time to register long, shockingly white hair, brown eyes behind a pair of oval spectacles in an old, scarred face and a grimace of shock and anger before she started shouting.

"WHO THE DEVIL ARE YOU?! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?! SAY SOMETHING OR I'LL BLAST YOUR HEAD OFF!"

Albus became abruptly aware of the fact that the woman was pointing a wand at him with one hand and, in the other, holding something long and made of metal - also pointed at him. He had no idea what it was but it looked dangerous. He looked up into her brown eyes, which were flashing with rage, and found himself confident in her ability to carry out her threat.

He held up his hands in an appeasing way, painfully aware of fact that he'd left his wand back on his desk in his office. "V-very sorry, my name is Albus Dumbledore and I think there's b-been a bit of a m-mistake-"

Both the wand and metal thing were suddenly shoved up close to his face.

"Albus Dumbledore, are you? Hah! And I'm Santa Claus!" the woman snarled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Alas, as Severus Snape had found out on more than one occasion, Albus simply couldn't detect sarcasm. This meant that he thought that that was very strange name but, nevertheless, held out a hand politely. "Pleased to meet you, Santa."

The woman looked at his hand as if it was an arm with the Dark Mark emblazoned on it. "Are you trying to be funny or something?!"

"No," said Albus truthfully. Laughing wasn't the right course of action at that time, he was sure of it. Instead, forcing himself to remain calm, he deciding to continue explaining. "I really am very sorry about this, I was just at my desk writing when I saw something strange. Stupidly, I touched it and the next thing I knew, I was in your beautiful bathroom. I do apologise-"

"Come off it, be serious - or I'll call the police! Or the Aurors! Or, alternatively, I could, as I specified earlier, BLAST YOUR HEAD OFF!"

The last four words were screamed out with such vehemence that Albus was forcefully reminded of the Potions Master in a temper. Part of him was astonished that someone his age could be that fiery but 95% of him was puzzled at 'Santa's' refusal to take him seriously.

"I assure you, I being quite serious. I won't trouble you any further if you could possibly tell me in whether I'm anywhere near Hogwarts-"

Slowly, both the wand and the metal object were lowered. The anger had suddenly faded from the woman's face, which now held a mixture of awe, amazement and confusion. Albus hoped that now the idea seemed to have got through, receiving an answer and a solution to his predicament would be easier. He opened his mouth but the woman started speaking before he could say a word.

"You're saying that you're the _real Albus Dumbledore?" _the woman said incredulously.

The Headmaster was rendered temporarily speechless. Confusion was a dominating factor, tempered with modesty: _Virtually everyone knows who I am and what I look like - no reason for them to do so, of course, but still… _He blinked as something else occurred to him. Even Gilderoy Lockhart had never succeeded in garnering such an expression of wonder on any devotee's face. _Surely I don't merit that much awe…_

"Yes," he said vaguely, as if identity was now something purely optional.

"But that's impossible!" argued the stranger suddenly. "You died! Ages ago!"

Albus found himself more amused by the idea than alarmed. This woman was clearly not in the right frame of mind. "No, no, no, I didn't," he said calmly. "Tom hasn't got me yet." He decided to press on. "Now, can you tell me whether we're in Hogmeade or somewhere else, because I need to get back to Hogwarts-" He remembered that the woman was somewhat confused. "-I'm Headmaster there," he added, in a slow, clear voice, as if he was speaking to a toddler.

The woman known as 'Santa' blinked and adjusted her glasses. Albus found himself under a penetrating stare, as if he was being evaluated and his soul was been examined. Then she suddenly looked very awkward. "Um…"

Albus raised his eyebrows at her hopefully. "Hm?"

"Hogwarts is…um…"

"Yes?" said Albus patiently. When people like Cornelius Fudge kept on talking to you, you learnt very quickly to be patient.

"Uh…" The woman bit her lip and suddenly looked sorry for him. The change of mood was so startling that Albus felt as if he was trying to follow a conversation that he'd lost track of half an hour before. "Hogwarts… Hogwarts is gone."

"Gone?" Albus adjusted his own glasses. The woman was clearly insane. How could Hogwarts be gone? Hogwarts was permanent. Hogwarts was a part of the earth. It wasn't possible for it to be _gone_.

"Destroyed," whispered the woman.

The world seemed to spin and everything seemed to blur, except for the woman's lips saying the dread word over and over again and it sounded in Albus's ears like the rattling breath of a Dementor. The Headmaster felt as if he was going to throw up. His face went slack with horror and an icy wind seemed to blow through his soul…

The scene suddenly started to zoom away and the trio felt as if they were being pulled backwards very fast. Just as Harry thought that his dizziness had reached a peak, they were suddenly standing in the Headmaster's office with the Pensieve lying on the desk.

With Dumbledore standing right next to him.

Numb with dismay, Harry looked at the Headmaster's face and winced. It was like thunder.

Clearly having been disturbed from bed, Dumbledore was dressed in a dark purple dressing gown and his face was lined with tiredness. But the trio didn't notice that.

All they noticed was the look on his face. Harry was sure that even Snape would've run away in terror when confronted with such an expression. It was like seeing a storm played out on someone's face. The blue eyes were cold with a glint of steel in them. The mouth was a thin line of anger. The cheeks were flushed with rage. Voldemort would've crumbled to dust before such a visage. In short, Albus Dumbledore looked as if he'd have liked nothing better than to toss all three of them in a cauldron and boil them alive. Harry heard Ron let out a small whimper.

"P-professor D-Dumbledore w-w-we - wereallyreallysorry-" squeaked Hermione. A small, detached part of Harry swelled in admiration for his friend - the fact that the young witch still possessed the ability to speak showed how brave she was.

Dumbledore said two words. His tone of voice gave a popular swearword a whole new level of venom.

The trio fled.


End file.
